The Roses Grow
by I love music
Summary: Draco and Astoria are married with a small son, Scorpius.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This will be a two-parter. It's a follow-up to my earlier fic The Perfume of the Roses, but can also be read on its own. For those who haven't read the first, Draco is married to Astoria and lives with his wife and son in muggle suburbia.

 **The Roses Grow**

Suddenly Scorpius was 5½ years old. How it happened, his father never knew. One minute he was a gurgling, helpless infant and the very next a walking, talking, running, playing, mischevious little wizard. Of course, even with witches and wizards, nobody ages over five years in the space of one minute and so time _must_ have passed without telling him anything about it. As Astoria pointed out, when he mulled over the mystery, there _had_ been other changes over the years – for instance, Draco's hair was thinning. Although Draco refused to believe it was due to age. It was, he maintained, due to the fact Scorpius when a baby loved to pull on his hair to draw his face closer whenever he put his head in his cot. So strong was his grip that he pulled strands of his hair out by the roots, he claimed, impervious to Astoria's laughter, and sticking to his tall story. And he sighed at the pictures of his late father, who had a wonderful thick head of hair right until his dying day.

As did Mother. At least, this was the memory Draco liked to keep in his mind though it wasn't _quite_ true. A week before Narcissa Malfoy died of Hurbyscurby, her beautiful long, gleaming locks, the last indication that the skeletal, sunken-eyed witch was the same pretty young English rose laughing and dancing in the silver-framed photographs, turned snow-white and brittle and fell out altogether. It was heartbreaking to see it gone. Heartbreaking that she was unaware of her beauty being eroded by illness, no longer aware of anything at all, even of who he was, lost forever in her world of dreams.

Fittingly enough, a single red rose was the last thing he ever gave her. Which led to the tradition.

At 10.30 in the morning of the day Narcissa Malfoy passed, an enormous bouquet of mixed flowers awaited delivery to her. At 10.33 on the very same morning, a certain Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy was practising riding a small broomstick indoors and in his efforts to avoid crashing into the ceiling instead crashed and landed in an ungainly pile on his grandmother's bouquet.

The little wizard was extremely upset, not only because he had been told several times not to ride broomsticks indoors and was now probably going to be literally grounded for a week, but because he knew the flowers' intended recipient. He picked up the rose, the solitary flower that had been fortunate enough to escape his mass destruction, with tears sparkling in his eyes.

"This one is best, Daddy," he said in a low, guilty voice, looking round in dismay at the trampled bouquet and choosing not to mention it was also the solitary survivor. "And Grandmama can have my magic hat to make her better."

His voice croaked even as he made the suggestion. Scorpius's magic hat was his most treasured toy. It was a gaudy, peculiar-looking contraption that once placed on the head could tune into the wearer's wishes and create a limited and somewhat useless magic, such as moving a quill from one end of a table to the other, but many a witch and wizard too young yet to use controlled magic yearned to own one.

Sometimes his father was breathless with awe at his son's generosity and at how easily he laughed and cried. At around the same age Draco had been taught selfishness and to hide his emotions. On his fifth birthday, his own father took him aside and gave him a stern lecture on how displeased, dismayed and disgusted he was that a pureblood child and heir to the Malfoy fortune had wept hot tears of disappointment, reluctant to hurt his parents' feelings by telling them one of his birthday gifts had not been to his satisfaction. It was, Lucius Malfoy explained, not replacing the gift that was the problem. Money was not an issue in the Malfoy household. No, the problem was Draco's reaction. He should simply have stated the present was not acceptable and demanded something bigger and better. But never, _ever_ burst into tears and shame himself and his family.

Keen to earn his father's approval, Draco quickly learnt to mask his emotions until it became almost second nature and as the emotions were swallowed so, too, was his empathy for others. So where the tears came from that day in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom he never knew. Nor why he confided in her so much. He suspected Myrtle was muggleborn but he gave himself a thousand excuses. He didn't _know_ for certain. She was dead so it didn't count. It was easier to let her waffle to get rid of her. There was nowhere else to go to cry in peace. Someone might suspect what he was up to if she had a hissy-fit and stormed off.

Truth was, muggleborn or not, he _needed_ Myrtle. He _needed_ to break down. To feel the overwhelming relief that tears brought. To know that if only for a few minutes someone was there to listen. And afterwards the guilt that he'd cried would overwhelm him, but he knew he would still cry again tomorrow. Until Saint Potter. He froze when he glimpsed the Gryffindor's reflection in the cracked, dirt-streaked mirror. Small wonder his father said never let your enemies see you weak. Because worse than being caught sobbing had been the pity in his eyes. Bloody Potter, of all people, pitying him! Bloody Potter, of all people, knowing one shove and he'd crumble. He'd whipped round fast as lightning, drawn his wand, the cruciatus curse on his lips, but Potter was faster because the tears, the terrible tears, had weakened him. Or so he thought at the time.

Years later he realised.

One night five years ago as he sat by Scorpius's cot soothing him to sleep the truth dawned. They had earlier been discussing the shocking events of the astronomy tower – or, rather, Draco had been sharing his whispered secrets with the gurgling infant and confessed how Potter beat him to the draw because crying made him slow. But suddenly he knew. He hadn't been able to curse Potter because _his heart wasn't in it._ He couldn't _hate_ enough to kill Dumbledore or curse Saint Potter! Tears had been his _strength_ not his weakness!

In that wild moment of realisation, he itched to shout Eureka at the top of his voice - except Scorpius was giving such wonderful tiny snores of contented slumbers and Astoria wouldn't be very pleased if he made both herself and their child jump out of their skin. Anyway, Eureka _was_ a bit muggleish. Just because they were raising their son to be much more tolerant of muggles than they themselves had been in their youth didn't mean they had to let standards slip. Though he couldn't help chortling as he crept downstairs, the late evening silent save for Scorpius's snores and the occasional chirp and rustle of wings as the family of birds that lived under the eaves of the roof settled down for the night. It might have been lonely except nights were never lonely any more.

In summer Astoria liked to read by the open window to catch the last balmy rays of evening light and he found her there, book face down in her lap, chin resting on fists, concentrating on breathing deeply in and out to better inhale the fragrance of the roses that had begun to scent the air. He recollected how the hidden chortle had turned into an outright laugh and how, as she turned, smiling sheepishly at being caught so, tears dimmed his vision. Odd, odd, odd. Here he was, about to tell his wife of his discovery and now tears came when there was no reason for tears! After all, he wasn't sad or tasked with killing Dumbledore or about to take a Dark Mark, was he? No, he was perfectly happy and yet the tears simply arrived as if they had every business to be there and strangely felt as good as Astoria's smile and kiss when he told her about the Eureka moment. He was still healing, Astoria said, when he tagged the tale of the second remarkable discovery on to the first, but he still couldn't quite fathom it. It was something he might have pondered upon with Scorpius when Scorpius was a baby, listening to his father's soliloquies, pulling his face closer tugging at his hair, and chuckling in delight. But now Scorpius was 5½ he often asked his advice instead. Oh, not directly. What sort of topsy-turvy wizarding world would it be, Draco asked himself, if a father needed to constantly consult his small son instead of the small son seeking guidance from his father? He was very discreet about it. You see, Scorpius was very wise and so Draco watched and he learnt.

When his son was happy, naturally he laughed, but when he was very, very happy, he might also dance around with excitement or shout for joy or even jump several times. When Draco and Astoria took him to see the hugely popular travelling show, The Amazing Acrobatic Abdabbies (abdabbies are a small community of free elves very distantly related to the house-elf) Scorpius, like some of the other young witches and wizards in the audience, leapt out of his seat, screaming, laughing and waving his arms with excitement. Of course Draco could never imagine himself behaving in such wild fashion, but as so many emotions seemed related to happiness it seemed perfectly feasible that perhaps tears were too. Another puzzle answered.

But other mysteries remained. Such as the fact Scorpius – not always, but sometimes - cried not only when he himself was hurt or angry or being reprimanded over some misdemeanour or other but when _others_ were hurt!

 _It was how the tradition of the roses came to be:-_

 _(To Be Continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thanks to Charlotte Bird, Guest and thunderthunder for reviews and adds to Alerts.

 *****chapter 2*****

At times like this, when Scorpius showed such overwhelming generosity as being prepared to give away his favourite toy, Draco was hopelessly out of his depth. Did he take the magic hat or not? Would it teach him to grow up to be as self-centred as Draco had been if he refused or teach him to grow up to be a fool, too easily parted from all he owned, if he agreed? Would it upset Scorpius to have his gift rejected or upset him more to have something he loved taken from him? And (Draco had had so many new things to think about since the War perhaps it was hardly surprising he concentrated on the inconsequential) what _use_ would a magic hat be to his grandmother? Even if she still had all her mental and magical faculties she would scarcely be impressed that a child-size hat perched on top of her head could fly in circles slightly above her nine times before landing on her head again or whistle the first few bars of the wizarding opera. He hummed and hawed with indecision, feeling a mixture of pride, bewilderment, joy and sadness. Even after all this time this aching swell of his heart was still relatively new.

The peculiar phenomenon had arrived as unexpectedly as the Eureka moment would in later years.

Often he wondered at the fortunate star that came to shine so brightly and undeservedly on his horizon. For everyone, especially Pansy Potter, had long imagined he would marry Pansy Potter. When it was abundantly clear, even to Pansy, that this was never going to happen, when she finally admitted defeat and became betrothed to another, plans were quickly put in place by his anxious parents ( _Draco was showing shocking signs of beginning to sympathise with muggles_ ) and the ancient pureblood family of the Sacred 28, the Greengrasses ( _who had similar concerns about their youngest daughter Astoria_ ) for him to wed Daphne Greengrass. But between his visits to Greengrass Hall and the Greengrasses' visits to Malfoy Manor it was her younger sister who quietly stole his heart. Although she had always been much kinder to muggleborns than someone of her social class was expected to be, and although her conversion from pureblood ideals to tolerance had been far less traumatic than his own, both felt tarnished by war and both dreamed of a different future other than the pureblood supremacy their families and friends still advocated. Drawn irresistibly together, they were kindred spirits, broken and uncertain and afraid. Growing together. Healing each other. And wiser than they knew.

Scorpius was still awaiting his father's answer. Draco sighed helplessly at the latest conundrum. After nearly twenty years of compartmentalizing his emotions, a further decade and a half of figuring out how to uncompartmentalize them again was as yet early days. How in the name of Merlin was he supposed to know what to do with sudden tears and Eureka moments and a heart that ached with love for his wife and son?

Luckily, whenever Draco was stumped, he could rely on Astoria to sort things out. Narcissa Malfoy was so ill now that they had decided not to take Scorpius on any further visits, thinking it best he remember her as the beautiful and elegant, if a little vague, lady she had been before the latter stage of the illness took her in its firm grip.

Draco could only watch in awe as his wife cuddled their small son and explained it was very, very kind of Scorpius to offer the magic hat, and as he was being so kind he was let off with a warning about riding broomsticks indoors ( _this time,_ she added sternly) but he must keep the hat; Grandmama would be very happy with the rose - in fact, as it meant _I love you_ she would far, far prefer it to a thousand magic hats, and it was very clever of Scorpius to think of it.

Scorpius brightened immediately. Swept up on the crest of a wave of euphoria that he just _might_ be a genius – Scorpius could at times be very much his father's son - he was adamant about exactly how the rose was to be presented. Daddy must promise to carry it by the stem between thumb and two fingers with arm outstretched lest he damage it in transportation and in order that it would be the first thing Grandmama saw, he stipulated firmly.

Although his excited young son failed to notice, the one thus instructed turned even whiter than usual at the image conjured of himself _Riding a broomstick all the way to St Mungo's whilst very conspicuously carrying a single red rose like a lovelorn idiot!_ Draco had lost a lot of credibility after the war. Most witches and wizards already regarded him either as a pathetic joke to be openly mocked or a disgusting reptile who should be have been locked away in Azkaban. It had been a bitter pill for him to swallow, to realise he had always been nothing more than a vastly wealthy, reasonably handsome, mediocre wizard, excellent at Potions, fairly talented at Quidditch, fairly good at sketching, fairly average at everything else. Worse, according to the Mirror of Truth – which he should never, ever have looked into in the first place, but it _was_ just a few weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts and he _was_ feeling very low and convinced it was going to bolster his shattered confidence by telling him he was the greatest wizard to ever raise a wand - he was a spoilt, nasty, cowardly, vindictive bully.

Years later he told Astoria about the Mirror of Truth and she held him tight and said everything was going to be okay now. And it was. Since Astoria he had begun to slowly build up a modicum of respect. Rare now were the incidents of someone spitting in his face or regarding him with contempt. He was known to be a law-abiding wizard, who was training to be a Healer, happily married with a small son, and not involved in any dark arts or muggle-hating whatsoever. It had been a long, hard struggle to put the past behind him, but every once in a while someone actually called him Mr Malfoy or even graced him with a smile.

Sailing through the skies in the peculiar fashion Scorpius wished him to would result in either:-

a) An army of pureblood fanatics following him under the impression he was leading a new revolution.

b) Being arrested by Aurors for suspicious behaviour and thrown in Azkaban for decades.

c) A sneakily-obtained photo appearing in tomorrow morning's Daily Prophet accompanied by a gossipy article written by Rita Skeeter, hinting he was seeing someone other than Astoria, their marriage breaking up, Astoria gaining custody of their son, and the wizard press laying siege to his home.

Yes, of course they were ridiculous scenarios and deep down he knew it. But his mind always went into overdrive when faced with impossible choices. Maybe it was a throwback to the loneliness of the Room of Requirement and the kill-or-be-killed edict Voldemort demanded. What _was_ certain however was if anyone saw him he would be a laughing stock. Then again he loved Scorpius and Scorpius was gazing up at him so trustingly. How could he snap and break like a twig the promise he expected to extract – and in the process his child's heart?

"Invisible Charm," Astoria whispered in his ear. Draco nodded, overwhelmed with relief. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Invisible Charms were much quicker and safer than apparating, but as they sucked a vast amount of magic out of the air and could interfere with other Apparation points, their use was permitted only in certain professions, Healers and trainee Healers being among them, and then only in exceptional circumstances. A trainee Healer visiting his dying mother would just about pass as an exceptional circumstance when the Ministry of Magic investigated the reason for its use.

And so Scorpius, standing by his mother's side to wave him off, saw his father leaving exactly in the manner he wished. Praying nobody saw him in those first few minutes, Draco cast the Invisible Charm as soon as he was covered by a large grey cloud.

In a split second, holding the single red rose in his outstretched arm just as he'd promised Scorpius he would, broomstick parked in the doorway, he stood in his mother's private ward at St Mungo's.

Narcissa Malfoy looked small and thin and lost in the huge bed in the vast room he had hired. Although she could have had, for free, a decent enough private ward with a decent enough sized bed, as could all patients admitted to the famous hospital for magical maladies and injuries, she was surrounded by every home comfort her son had been able to procure. Or at least what was left in Malfoy Manor after the war reparations. Sadly, breathtakingly grand though it would be to most wizarding folk, it wasn't very much compared to all they used to own and, like Malfoy Manor itself, each and every item was to be re-possessed by the Ministry of Magic after her death. It had been a small concession they reluctantly granted him ( _albeit barely disguising their bafflement and deep suspicion of his strange request_ ) in gratitude for Narcissa's lie to Voldemort that saved Harry Potter and brought about the Dark Lord's downfall. His mother had always loved and lived in the lap of luxury and despite the fact she was far too ill now to notice or appreciate such grandeur, her son was determined her last hours should be no different.

Although everything was.

Gathered in the vast ward, looking for all the world as though it had been filched from Malfoy Manor by a passing crooked wizard, who, so delighted was he to stumble upon a chance to thieve undisturbed, had no idea what to accio first and so acciod at random. A four poster bed with satin sheets, three pairs of neatly folded thick velvet curtains and a lush golden-fibred rug, a solid oak but empty bookcase and a solid oak wardrobe containing just four exquisite dancing dresses, six silver goblets on a silver platter, an antique wing-backed chair and a mahogany writing bureau, a platinum watch and two gold rings, an ornate mirror and three oil paintings resting against the wall, an opal brooch and a diamond necklace, two strings of pearls and one pair of sapphire ear-rings...all was carefully magicked with a Ministry trace lest he or anyone else be tempted to spirit anything away and all glittered brightly in the sunlight that poured generously inside, while the centuries-old grandfather clock sounded its gloomy march of time with every sonorous tick.

"Mother." He meant his greeting to sound confident and reassuring, for Narcissa Malfoy was in the very last stages of Hurbyscrurby and fading fast, but of its own volition his voice came out as little more than a hoarse, emotional croak. But his mother heard. Her head propped up against goose-down pillows that still bore the Malfoy monogram, she looked towards him and stared curiously at the rose. Then a smile lit up her face and his heart – oh, stupid heart, these days it did exactly as it pleased; he had no control over it at all – beat rapidly with a hope he knew could never be.

"Draco." She whispered. She had not recognised him, nor anyone else, for months. Startled with joy, he stood rooted to the spot while his heart, without a care for the consequences, jumped into his throat, stealing his breath.

Narcissa's lips twitched. "The rose...?"

"Oh! Scorpius's idea."

It was only when she laughed that he realised he hadn't yet lowered his outstretched arm nor removed the flower from his fingertips and must have resembled some lovesick – what was it muggles called it? - yes, a lovesick Rolo. Really! It would have been bad enough for strangers to laugh at him, but for his own mother to obviously find his embarrassment highly amusing... Well, he couldn't help but grin with her. _And_ with tears running down his cheeks! No chance of stopping them. See? This was what happened when you no longer practised occlumency. A heart that did whatever it pleased and tears that simply arrived whether they were invited to be there or not. Emotional free-fall. Witches and wizards ought to be warned about it, he thought, aware he didn't mean a word of the thought and quite pleased with himself for not meaning it.

"Do you remember..." She coughed, her voice and breath beginning to break and die now with the huge effort it had taken her to speak; "the rose story?"

He did. Suddenly he did! Mother would relate it often when Draco was young. His father was never truly a bad man, despite what people thought, she said. He was easily led and swayed by arguments that muggleborns were taking over the wizarding world. But there was a time, she would recall wistfully, before Lucius became a Death Eater. A time when she was a young, happy witch being courted by a kind, handsome young wizard. A time when Lucius would come to call and bring her a bunch of red roses, pluck one from the bouquet and tell her he loved her. Draco had long forgotten the gentle tale, swayed too as his father had been, swept up in first the excitement and then terror at taking the Dark Mark. But the memory was still there, buried deep, biding its moment.

"Draco. Astoria. Scorpius," Narcissa whispered faintly, as though committing the names to memory. Her fingers slackened their hold on the rose he had placed in her hand. She was smiling, gazing intently at a corner of the room,. "Lucius," she seemed to mouth. Her head fell back against the pillow as if she would rest for a little while. But the light had already left her eyes. And the silence was heavy save for the steady ticking of the clock and Draco's sobs.

 **A/N:** I lied, this will be a three-parter! :D Next chapter will be the final.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thanks to Charlotte Bird, thunderthunder, xNotAMugglex and Guests for your lovely reviews and for adding this fic to Faves/Follows. :)

 *****chapter 3*****

It rained that day. Not the light spring rain that gladdens the heart and breathes new life into a stifling air with its laughter and promise of spring. No, reader, I will not deceive you. The day of the roses dawned dreary and dismal. A cold wind nipped, withered brown leaves fell down from the trees, mud was thick and the black and white world held no magic.

Save for a father and son.

They are easily identifiable as thus. Both have silver-blond hair and silver-grey eyes, both walk almost regally, heads held high, shoulders back, firm of step - though if anyone were to look more closely they would observe the child outpaced the parent. As if he would always lead the way.

The man tightly clutches the boy's hand or perhaps the boy tightly clutches the man's; it is hard to tell. The man carries a small bouquet, a dozen red roses, as the pair make their way in companionable silence through the rain-sodden cemetery until they reach a certain memorial, far larger and more ornate than any of the rest.

The memorial bears the impressive Malfoy crest. A large silver letter "M", resplendent on a background of black, green and silver, is surrounded by serpentine creatures. The Latin motto _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ (Purity Will Always Conquer) is inscribed on a silver banner. Often it catches the eye and many a witch or wizard shudders as they pass. Some shake their heads or click their tongues or make other noises of disapproval. Some hurry on by, as if even to glance at it would taint their soul and poison their children. A large group of witches and wizards had even campaigned to have the _offensive wording and images"_ removed _"as being liable to incite muggle hate crime"_ but for once since the War the Malfoy name triumphed - although the Malfoys knew nothing at all about it until a Ministry owl tapped on their window, an official Ministry document attached to its leg, informing them the petition to have their family crest banned was overturned and, provided they committed no crimes against muggles (accompanied by dire warnings of the consequences if they did), they were being allowed to keep it.

Draco didn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity that it might start a new War, rant furiously at the many crimes wizarding society constantly accused him to be _thinking_ of, or fire off a polite, strained reply to the Ministry thanking them or their "kind consideration". But finally he settled for a few angry, frustrated tears – yes, tears yet again; they were quite the nuisance these peculiar days - cried on his wife's shoulder. And then they both laughed at the absurdity of it all. Astoria can always make him feel better, make him feel the world's a brighter place. And they have created their own little world here, Draco, Astoria and Scorpius. It's not a perfect world; his old life of vast riches is stripped away, his family is gone and Astoria's family have disowned her, but it's theirs. Just theirs. When night falls and the door is closed, when the stars shine down and the roses look up in wonder, it is their kingdom.

And though they are forced to live among muggles, muggles are not so dense as he once believed. They sense there is something different about the unremarkable family who live in the unremarkable detached house in the unremarkable street. As though they, especially the father, are one step out of time. Like an old movie with the sound out of sync, as one muggle put it.

The head of the unremarkable family suspects their reaction to the gravestone, if it were not invisible to the muggle world, would be different too. After all, the same family crest is right above the door. A much smaller version, of course, one of the few things he was allowed to take with him when the Manor was seized by the Ministry of Magic after his mother's death. Muggles often glance at it as they pass. Some laugh, some frown, some think perhaps it's to do with a heavy metal band, some say he's an eccentric artist, others guess he's a designer of computer games, still others insist he's an ex-churchman, yet more claim he must be a dealer in antique goods. They never seem to run out of ideas and he doesn't understand half of what they're talking about if they are curious enough to ask so he simply smiles enigmatically and hurries on by. Muggles, strange beings that they are, have very vivid imaginations, he's discovered. Somehow however he knows _they_ would never try to ban the Malfoy family crest and for that he has an odd kind of respect for them.

"Now, Father?" Scorpius's voice pulls him back into the present. Tears glaze Draco's eyes. For all their faults, Narcissa and Lucius loved him. The son gives him an encouraging smile to reassure. Sometimes he calls him Dad or Daddy. On formal occasions, it is always Father. He is six-and-a-half years old but in this moment he seems older.

A year has gone by since his grandmother's death and Scorpius has grown. His face is ruddy, his hair tousled by the biting wind. Only last night Astoria remarked that he lacked the pale complexion and perfectly styled hair the Malfoys were always famed for.

 _Draco says perhaps it's good he will be different and his own person. It is a question, not a statement. He looks uncertain when he speaks and relaxed when his wife agrees. He wants to know more, what she thinks, how it will be. He feels he is learning, always learning, yet somehow he never tires of acquiring new knowledge. They often talk long into the night when their son is fast asleep. About the past, about the future. What was and what might be. He still carries guilt. Not just about the terrible events that led to a terrible War, but about his parents. What do you do when you promise so much to begin? And then fall away, so far away, to others' expectations? She smiles her sweet smile and reminds him it was how he became a better man._

"Wait." Draco shakes away his musings, raises his wand and mutters an incantation. Around them the wind eerily whistles and the rain furiously lashes but in their corner of this brown earth all is warm and dry. There is no mistaking the boy's expression. Pride and admiration. His father stands a little taller.

"You'll do magic too one day," he promises. But he already does, the realisation strikes him. Not wizarding magic, something else, something deeper, something that brings a quiet poetry to his father's heart.

Scorpius asks a silent question and Draco nods in answer. They have always been this way, so close they can almost read each other's minds. He holds out to him the small bouquet of unassuming red roses still glistening with raindrops. Scorpius accepts and steps solemnly forward.

He carefully selects one red rose to lay by the ornate gravestone. "Love you," he says softly. "Miss you."

The roses ceremony was Scorpius's idea. When told how much Grandmama had loved the single red rose, he wanted to do the same for her after her death. Before Narcissa's name was added, the little family of three had dutifully brought flowers to Lucius Malfoy's last resting place, huge, expensive wreaths, jewel-toned bouquets, rich and showy and elaborate, like he himself had been. And on Lucius's birthday and the anniversary of his death, flamboyant offerings are brought still to honour his memory. But after Narcissa's passing, on special days, Christmas, Hallowe'en, Wizzlewick Day, they bring only twelve red roses, enchanted so that the thorns never cut, the modest posy tied with green and silver ribbons.

And, as always, Scorpius will arrange the roses in the memorial vase, then either Draco or Astoria will use magic to keep them fresh until their next visit.

It is then that Draco feels a gaze burning into his back and he turns, expecting to see Astoria raising her wand ready to cast the spell. Usually she is with them, but today she must do Something Important, she says mysteriously, and will meet them very soon. Before the ceremony, she'd promised, and he has a half-smile on his lips, a half-joke ready to tease her about her lateness. His wife hates being late. And how he loves to tease her, to bring a pretty blush to her cheeks, to see her beautiful brown eyes dance with guilt and laughter.

But it not Astoria.

A small girl with freckles and wild red curls tumbling over her shoulders is watching them with interest. That she is of the magical world is immediately apparent. She holds aloft one of the popular new owl-shaped umbrellas that not only keeps the rain away but bounces it back towards the sky in a sparkly silver cloud.

"Can I have a flower too? Because I've been crying," she adds, for greater effect, sensing Draco's reluctance. The flowers are for Mother. He draws breath to refuse the request, but children have their own language, their own rules. Their world is black and white; their world is filled with colour. Scorpius is already offering a rose and Scorpius is wise.

"I've been crying because somebody died years ago and _they_ _got put here_ , you know." This is entirely for Draco's benefit. The little witch, busy pinning the rose behind her ear with one hand and balancing the owl-shaped umbrella with the other, smirks victoriously at the tall, thin wizard and he bites back the sarcastic retort that _lots_ of witches and wizards have died years ago and _been put here, you know._

"Who died?" Scorpius asks, with blunt curiosity.

She shrugs. "Oh, some uncle. It was before I was born so I'm not sad but the grown-ups cry when they come to see his grave so I think about something really sad like never, _ever_ having any chocolate frogs to eat and cry as well to help out. Mum and Dad say he died in the Second Wizarding War." She regards Draco curiously. "Do you remember it? It happened maybe a hundred years ago."

He blinks, not quite sure whether the veiled insult is deliberate. Sometimes, despite how far he's come, he misses his old arrogance. An admirable put-down even rumbles at the back of his throat right at this moment, oh, so keen to break free, oh, to put the little missy in her place, oh, please, please, _please,_ just this once, for old time's sake! But this is a child, he reminds himself. A _child._ Like Scorpius.

"Where are your parents?" He asks stiffly instead. "You're only – what? Five or six. Much too young to be wandering about on your own."

"I am _not_ five or six!" She shrieks with righteous indignation, fists suddenly on hips in a manner that vaguely reminds him of Granger. " _Babies_ are five or six! I'm six- _and-a-half!"_

"So am I!" Scorpius announces happily.

" _Wowww!"_ She is as impressed as Scorpius is.

Poor Draco is out of his depth as a lively talk of birthdays and the responsibilities of being six-and-a-half ensues, wondering if he belongs anywhere in this crazy conversation, and how to get it back on track and impress upon the newcomer the more important matter of tracing her guardians. He sighs inwardly. Weren't there Aurors to do this type of work? And wasn't he supposed to be a dangerous ex-Death Eater, not a bloody nursemaid? Fortunately, at that moment someone lightly touches his arm and to his enormous relief Astoria is there by his side, frowning in bewilderment at the sight of an unfamiliar small girl, one of Narcissa's roses in her hair, talking animatedly to Scorpius.

"Lost," her husband explains succinctly. Astoria's lips twitch. Obviously Draco is referring to the child, but her husband certainly looks it. And she fondly remembers another time, another place, and how lost he once was.

Usually the ceremony of the roses ends with all due solemnity and the little family of three walking slowly away. But of course a lost child takes priority over pomp and tradition. Astoria moves briskly, bringing the custom to a hasty close, placing the roses quickly in the vase; spells can be done later. "Your parents will be very worried about you," she gently tells the little girl. "We must find them,"

"Yes, yes, we must." Stirred into action, Draco proffers his hand to his son and feels – well, he doesn't know quite _what_ to feel when a different tiny hand reaches up and different tiny fingers close trustingly around his palm. Shocked, flattered, puzzled, uncertain. He looks helplessly at his wife, who only shakes her head in amusement, while Scorpius, unperturbed by this brand new arrangement, simply clasps his father's free hand.

And thus they meet.

Unexpectedly, in a scurry of running footsteps and anxious voices, hugs and kisses, tears and smiles, the scent of roses and rain, the gentle squelch of a dropped owl umbrella falling into mud while its owner is scooped up in parental arms.

Perhaps the sky tired of its tears. Perhaps it has no more left to shed. A watery sun is shining down, the wind pushing away rain-clouds like a busy Auror in Knockturn Alley moving on suspicious-looking magical folk. But a chill remains in the air and it's not of a chill of this earth, it's far, far colder.

So each has their moment. Appropriately enough, Draco freezes. Hermione frowns as she sets her struggling daughter, squirming away from "too many" kisses, back down on the ground. Ron glares with open hostility. Ginny purses her lips. Harry touches the lightning scar on his forehead as if wondering why it's there. Astoria alone smiles and her smile warm and tender as an early morning summer's day. But none of the adults return or see the smile. They look only towards Draco, eyes wary, hearts jaded by a War that cruelly stole away their childhood.

And _their_ own children – including Scorpius and the little red-haired girl with the rose in her hair, there are six, who must range in age from four or five to ten or eleven years old (although we _can_ be certain of at least two being 6½) - their children play. A gaggle of youngsters, six in all, but they seem several more as they run and shout, hide behind gravestones without a flicker of reverence for those long gone and with a litre of tears (the youngest or next-to-youngest) for being caught too quickly in their game of hide-and-seek, bursting with laughter (even the youngest or next-to-youngest) and life and love. Scorpius is among them. And the little red-haired girl, pausing to catch a breath and catching instead the summer smile nobody else has noticed, not even the tall, thin wizard who held her hand. He looks afraid. Beside him the pretty lady with the long, black hair looks sad even though she's smiling.

Something is broken. Is _she_ to blame? Conscience-stricken, she fingers the rose in her hair, the cause of it all, and earnestly explains, "I _needed_ a rose because it's my name."

"That is so cool." Scorpius has joined her. "I got landed with a wizard name." He is oblivious to his father wincing. "It's Scorpius."

"Well, you couldn't be called a flower name." Rose has already forgotten her guilt and moved on.

Scorpius's brow wrinkles. "I could if there was a flower called Harry or Oliver or David..."

" _Nobody_ would call a flower Harry or Oliver or David..."

"Ah, but if..." Their voices die out as they return to playing.

The air is suddenly lighter. Filled with silent laughter. As though someone has sprinkled star dust over dusty memories and made them shine with hope. Amid the loud squabbles and excited screams of the children, the adults' conversation is polite, stilted. But it's there.

Hermione swallows. "Thank you for looking after Rose," she says tightly.

Ron awkwardly clears his throat and mumbles something. It might be a thank you, it might be an agreement, it might be the Ancient Wizarding Oath spoken in some obscure wizard language, we will never know; the words are drowned forever in the cough.

Astoria smiles again as she takes Draco's hand, the same hand where the mischievous little witch had placed all her trust. "She's sweet. How old is she?"

" _Exactly_ 6½," Draco replies, at the same time and with the same sigh as Hermione. They look at one another in surprise, and Ron regards the ex-Slytherin with narrow-eyed suspicion.

"Scorpius too. They grow fast," Astoria says quickly, before thunderclouds gather anew.

"Do you have any other kids?" Ginny asks, sneakily kicking Harry's ankle to remind him that talking, and not being too busy cleaning imaginary spots off spectacles with a scourgifying charm, is how walls are broken down. Sheepishly, he replaces his glasses, and just in time to see and wonder at the expression on the face of Malfoy's wife. He remembers her hazily from school. Slytherin. Quiet. Is it Angelica or Athelia or Anastasia? He should ask, but he doesn't. "Um...we have three. James, Albus, Lily," he offers, looking as unlike a war hero and defeater of Voldemort as it's possible for a war hero and defeater of Voldemort to be.

"Just Scorpius." Draco's voice is coated with pride. Even if he did land him with a wizard name.

"Rose. Hugo." Ron adds reluctantly, and only because Hermione is mouthing at him to say so. He looks extremely unhappy about the fact that, to judge by their togetherness in some energetic new game, where they are fending off the other children with weeds, grass, leaves and an owl umbrella, their daughter and the Malfoy son appear to have forged an unbreakable bond. His worst fears are realised.

"Can Scorpius come back to ours to play?" Rose, panting and giggling, covered in wet grass, ducking storms of twigs and leaves from four different sides, sweeps into the circle, while her recently-acquired friend runs furiously around on the outside, using the opened owl umbrella as a screen to protect her from attack.

"Not today. We promised Nanny Molly we'd go for dinner and we're already late. But some time." Hermione replies.

"We still have to enchant the roses to stay fresh," his mother reminds Scorpius.

Hermione turns to Astoria. She can be civil, but she still can't bring herself to be friendly with Draco Malfoy. But his wife never did anything to hurt her. "I'll send an owl."

And, with addresses given and good wishes exchanged for the sake of good wishes, the conversation that barely drew breath enough to live draws to the end of its short existence. Nobody mentions they've been paying their respects to Fred Weasley, who bravely gave his life in the Battle of Hogwarts. Nobody reminds anyone those they came to honour once despised them. Nobody says what they really want to say, about guilt and anger, death and despair, happiness and hope. So, all in all, it isn't much. But it's a start.

"Look! Look! _Look!"_ Scorpius cries excitedly, just as the Potters and Weasleys apparate away. Both hands shielding his eyes, he gazes in awe at the large double rainbow that stretches across the vast blue sky. "Wait'll I tell Rose what she missed!"

It's good to see him lose the sombre mood he arrived here with today, his father thinks. Though he leans on him and his wisdom, it's good to see him simply being a child.

"Draco, the Something Important I had to do," Astoria whispers, while their son's attention is focussed on the twin rainbows. "The medi-witch confirmed it. I'm positive."

He stares at her, wide-eyed. "Does that mean...?"

She laughs. "Of course it does!"

Stunned at the beautiful world that is suddenly opening up in his heart, he looks in wonder at the mirror-image colours of the rainbow arcs and at the inscription on his parents' grave. Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. _Purity Will Always Conquer._ It will, it has. Just not in the way the Malfoys of old ever dreamed. Children were born without prejudice, without pre-conceived notions. They learnt from those around them. And Scorpius, grinning embarrassedly and making gagging noises as his Mum and Dad kiss, was learning to love.

For some inexplicable reason, maybe it was the little witch's name, he thinks of their small back garden and how the roses must be growing well in this strange mixture of sun, rain and rainbows. Really, really well.

 **END**


End file.
